"The American!" he exclaimed.

"English," said Grahame calmly. "The difference is, no doubt, not important."

The man looked hard at him, and Grahame carelessly dropped his hand upon his pistol.

"I am going to the _fonda_; if you are going that way, I would rather you walked in front. One is careful at night, my friend."

Though the fellow had a sinister look, he smiled and went off with an apology, and Grahame, going on to the hotel, waited outside until Walthew came up. The boy looked hot and breathless, but Grahame noticed that he had a flower in his hand.

"I've been followed," Walthew laughed. "The fellows dropped back soon after I came into the moonlight. Guess they saw they were after the wrong man."

"Very possibly. It happened to me. I wonder whether Castillo got away?"

They listened, but the town was quiet. One or two citizens crossed the plaza, but no sound that indicated anything unusual going on rose from the shadowy streets.

"It seems likely," Walthew replied. "I don't think they could have arrested him without some disturbance. Why didn't they search Sarmiento's house?"

"Perhaps they were afraid of starting a riot that would spread. The President seems to be a capable man, and Don Martin obviously enjoys the confidence of the citizens. On the whole, I think he deserves it."

"So do I," Walthew agreed. "What do you think of the other fellow?"

"I wouldn't trust him. He's no doubt sincere, but I'm not sure of his nerve. But where did you get the rose?"

"On the pavement outside the _casa Sarmiento_," Walthew answered with some embarra.s.sment.

"Mmm! Dropped from a window. Such things happen in Spanish-American towns, and it's possible that the President's spies have noted it against you. However, you'll be too busy to think of the senorita when we get back to the coast." Grahame paused and added: "It might be wise to remember that you're engaged in a dangerous business, and can't run the risk of any complications. Neither of us can indulge in philandering until this job's finished."

"I'll take no risk that could get us into difficulties, but that's all I'll promise," Walthew said quietly.

Grahame gave him a steady glance.

"Well, I suppose I must be satisfied."

They entered the hotel, and half an hour later they left Rio Frio and rode down the hillside toward the misty swamps that fringed the coast.

CHAPTER III

HIGH STAKES

The green shutters were half closed to keep the dazzling sunshine out of Henry Cliffe's private sitting-room at the smart Florida hotel, but the fresh sea breeze swept in and tempered the heat. The scent of flowers mingled with a delicate perfume such as fastidious women use, but Mrs.

Cliffe was enjoying an afternoon nap and her daughter had gone out, so that Cliffe and Robinson had the room to themselves. They sat, opposite each other, at a small table on which stood a bottle and a cigar box, but there was only iced water in the tall gla.s.s at Cliffe's hand.

He had lunched sparingly, as usual, and now leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. His hair was turning gray, and his face was thin and lined, but there was a hint of quiet force about him. His dress was plain but in excellent taste, and he looked, what he was, a good type of the American business man, who had, however, as sometimes happens to his kind, sacrificed his health to commercial success. He was a financier and a floater of companies which generally paid.

Robinson was tall, with a high color, a prominent, hooked nose, and a face of Jewish cast. His clothes were well cut, but their adherence to the latest fashion was rather p.r.o.nounced, and he wore expensive jewelry. He was favorably known on Wall Street and sometimes heard of when a corner was being manipulated in the Chicago wheat pit. Cliffe had proposed a joint venture, because he knew that Robinson did not fear a risk and he had learned that a Jew can generally be relied upon when the reckoning comes.

"Well," said Robinson, "I see a chance of trouble. If President Altiera goes down, we lose our money."

"A sure thing," Cliffe agreed. "It will be our business to keep him on his feet, and it may cost us something. In a way, that's an advantage.

He must have our help, and is willing to bid high for it."

"The revolutionaries may beat him."

"If he's left alone; but a little money goes a long way in his country, and the dissatisfied politicians would rather take some as a gift than risk their lives by fighting for it. Altiera can buy up most of them if he has the means; and he's capable of quieting the rest in a more drastic way." Cliffe smiled as he continued: "It's not my habit to plan a deal without carefully considering what I may get up against."

"Then it's your honest opinion the thing's a good business chance?"

"I call it that. One gets nothing for nothing. If you expect a prize, you must put up the stakes."

"Very well. Suppose you get the concession? Is there gold worth mining in the country?"

"I can't tell," Cliffe answered frankly. "The Spaniards found a good deal three hundred years ago, and now and then a half-breed brings some out of the bush. Guess we could get enough to use as a draw in the prospectus."

"You'd have to make the prospectus good," Robinson said with a thoughtful air. "Not an invariable rule, of course, but our names stand for something with the investing public."

"I generally do make good. If we don't strike gold, there's rubber, and the soil will grow high-grade cane and coffee. Give me the concession and I'll make it pay."

Robinson nodded. Cliffe's business talent was particularly marked in the development of virgin territory, though he never undertook the work in person. He knew where to find the right men, and how far to trust them.

"I suppose we won't be required to meddle with dago politics?" Robinson suggested.

"Certainly not; that's Altiera's affair, and he's capable of looking after it. A number of his people are getting tired of him, but so long as he can pay his soldiers up to time and buy support where he can't use force, he'll keep control."

"A bit of a brute, I've heard."

"He's not a humanitarian," Cliffe agreed. "Still, countries like his need a firm hand."

"Guess that's so," said Robinson.

He and Cliffe were respected in business circles. They met their obligations and kept the rules that govern financial dealings. That they might now be lending their support to tyrannical oppression, and helping to stifle the patriotic aspirations of a downtrodden people, did not enter their minds. That was not their affair; they were out for money, and their responsibility ended with the payment of dividends to those who bought their stock. They would fulfill this duty if the thing were possible; although their standard of morality was not of the highest, they had prosperous rivals who fell short of it.

"I'll stand in," Robinson decided after a few moments' silence. "You can let me know how much you will need to carry you through when you get your plans worked out."

"Very well. It's over the first payments we take a risk. The money will, so to speak, vanish. We'll have nothing to show for it except the good will of the men in power. Some of it may even get into the wrong hands."

Robinson made a sign of comprehension. He knew something about official graft, for he now and then found it needful to smooth the way for a new venture by judicious bribery.

"There'll be no trouble after we've bought the concession," Cliffe continued. "The cash will then go to the treasury, and whichever party gets control will have to stand to the bargain. And now I guess we can let the matter drop until I fix things up."

They went out to a seat on the veranda, which looked across a row of dusty palmettos and a strip of arid lawn that the glistening showers from the sprinklers could not keep green. An inlet of blue water ran up to its edge, and beyond the curve of sheltering beach the long Atlantic swell rolled into the bay flecked with incandescent foam, for the sunshine was dazzling and the breeze was fresh. Two or three miles away there was a stretch of calmer water behind a long point on which the surf beat, and in the midst of this a small steamer gently rolled at anchor. Nearer the inlet, a little sailing-boat stood out to sea, her varnished deck and snowy canvas gleaming in the strong light.

"Miss Cliffe's boat, isn't it?" Robinson remarked. "Looks very small; I s'pose she's safe?"

"New York canoe club model," Cliffe replied. "Had her brought down on a freight-car. Evelyn's fond of sailing and smart at the helm. She's all right--though the breeze does seem pretty fresh."